I closed my eyes.
“There’s one of you crying in the kitchen.”
My throat tightened.
“There’s one of you standing outside my office door.”
I froze.
I hadn’t known anyone was taking pictures.
Then Ethan said,
“And there’s one of you holding all three babies at the same time.”
His voice broke.
“You look completely exhausted.”
I sat down.
“Who took them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ethan, stop playing games.”
“I’M NOT!”
The babies started crying harder.
I flinched.
Ethan heard them.
For several seconds, there was only the sound of three newborns crying through the phone.
Then he whispered,
“I’ve been listening to that sound all afternoon.”
I wiped my face.
“You wanted to.”
“No.”
“You chose to.”
“I know.”
His voice broke.
“I know.”
That was the first time Ethan had ever admitted it.
I didn’t forgive him.
Not then.
But I listened.
He told me that after arriving at the resort, he’d spent the first few hours drinking, sleeping, and refusing to answer my messages.
Then he’d opened his suitcase.
The photograph.
The note.
The missing headphones.
And finally the second suitcase.
Inside was a folder.
And inside that folder was a copy of our bank statements.
Our mortgage.
Our children’s medical bills.
My unpaid maternity leave paperwork.
And something else.
A letter from my doctor.
It explained exactly how difficult my recovery had been.
It explained the complications I’d experienced after the C-section.
It explained that I needed rest.
Support.
Help.
Ethan had signed for that letter.
He’d received it.
And he’d never told me.
He had known.
That was the moment something inside me finally broke.
Not because he had gone to Cabo.
Not because he had slept in another room.
Not even because he’d called me hormonal.
It was because he had known exactly how badly I was struggling.
And he had chosen himself anyway.
“Who sent all of this?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I swear.”
“Then why do you have it?”
“I think my mother sent it.”
I stared into the darkness beyond the nursery.
“She wants me to come home.”
“No.”
He went quiet.
I continued.
“Don’t come home because your mother told you to.”
“I want to come home.”
“You don’t get to decide that everything is fixed because you suddenly feel guilty.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to walk through that door and expect me to hug you.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to call yourself a good father because you finally realized your children cry.”
“I know.”
His voice was barely audible.
“So what do I do?”
I looked at the three sleeping babies.
Then I looked at the empty guest-room doorway.
“Come home.”
He inhaled sharply.
“But not for me.”
“What does that mean?”
“Come home for them.”
I paused.
“And understand that coming home is not the same thing as being forgiven.”
He didn’t answer.
Then he said,
“I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“No.”
“What?”
“Finish your vacation.”
“Why?”
“Because you wanted two weeks.”
“I don’t want it anymore.”
“That isn’t the point.”
I looked at my children.
“You made a choice when you left.”
He was silent.
“Now you have to live with that choice.”
“But what about you?”
“I’ll manage.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“No.”
I wiped away my tears.
“I shouldn’t.”
We ended the call.
I expected to feel victorious.
I didn’t.
I felt empty.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of someone knocking at the front door.
It was Ethan’s mother.
She walked inside carrying three bags of groceries.
She looked at me.
Then at the babies.
Then she began crying.
“I should have stopped him.”
I didn’t say anything.
She put the groceries down.
“I wrote the note.”
